Lean On Me
by Just Chasing Rainbows
Summary: With the potential for Emma's world to fall apart, will she let anyone support her? (I'm rubbish at summaries)


**I've not written fanfic in some time and never written for Howmma so I hope this is ok. Apologies for any spelling / grammar errors. I try to catch them but it doesn't always happen.**

How much conscious understanding does an unborn child have? Does it have feelings? Can it pick up when it's wanted and when it is not? Does the child feel in the flutter of its mother's heartbeat the love that she feels, and if so can it detect in those beats the absence of love? It is these questions that flicker through the mind of Dr Reid as she sits, staring in to the untouched bowl in front of her. She hasn't even made a play at eating, and though Niamh and Ayesha keep shooting concerned looks in her direction, neither pass comments. Emma supposes that they'll assume she is nauseous this morning – that her fluctuating hormone levels are causing symptoms characteristic of her condition – and not wanting to invite their questions she doesn't say anything. In truth, this is one of the few mornings where she hasn't awoken with a sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It'll be a boy," Emma has managed to ignore most of the conversation happening around her, but now her eyes flick upwards – noting that Ayesha is fingering the black and white scan image from the week previously. How the young nurse got hold of it is anyone's guess, and right now Emma doesn't have it in her to question. She sees how Niamh's eyebrows quirk sceptically.

"And you know this how?" There is a hint of amusement in the Irish doctor's tone. Of course the baby's gender shouldn't be visible in such an early scan. Howard had asked the sonographer if they could tell the gender, a hint of emotion in his tone. He'd seemed so disappointed to find that they'd have to wait a further 6 weeks. She wasn't even sure that she wanted to know. She hadn't even been given the option with Chris.

"The nub," Ayesha sounds knowledgable. Chances are shes been utilising google trying to work it out. Emma doesn't understand why there is so much importance placed on gender. Surely all that matters in that the baby is healthy. But the health of the child – and surely that is the only real reason for scans – comes second to seeing the child and knowing what they will be. Perhaps though it is something wrong with her, that she sees scans for their true purpose and not with the excitement of seeing the life that she played a part in creating. But the image on the screen is not much like the baby that would be delivered.

The conversation continues around her, a buzz of words that do not infiltrate her brain. She knows the girls are excited for the baby. They were pleased that she decided to carry on with the pregnancy, though perhaps they don't quite appreciate how it will intrude on their lives. A child will scream through the night, impatient when it cannot latch on and feed immediately. The child will think nothing of them having to wake the next morning for work. No the girls think only of the cuddles with a warm infant who will melt in to their arms, of tiny outfits and that smell that only a newborn emits.

They will try to help as Howard will. But she doubts how long it will last. She knows in the end it will be left to her, and the reality of that scares her. She was never a natural at motherhood, and now she is facing it once more. She is no longer inexperienced, but that does not take away the fears. It does not make the truth of things any easier to swallow. She had been right of course to say that life without the child would be easier – but it would have placed another burden on her heart. She still would have had to face Howard.

The girls move around her, clearing away the breakfast things. Without comment, Niamh takes hers too – a look passing between the younger doctor and nurse. Soon she will be at work, with patients to distract her. In her room, she can slip behind the professional façade. Her mask to the world. Her patients don't know of the war that wages within her mind and body.

A hand snakes unconsciously down on to her abdomen. Does it feel any different? She doesn't think so. Somewhere beneath the layers of fat and muscle, a tiny being floats in a pool of fluid. She presses the hand slightly more firmly, is it aware of the compression of its home? Of the contact with its mother? No. She tries to tell herself firmly that all the compression is doing is easing the slight ache within her. The muscles and ligaments stretching.

"Emma?" Niamh's voice draws her back in to the present, and she sees that the girls have somehow gotten themselves ready to leave. When did they move from cleaning up to that? Slowly she removes the hand from her abdomen, before pulling herself in to a standing position. The ache increasing slightly with the loss of pressure, but she ignores it. Just as she tries to ignore everything else.

There is a steady stream of patients to keep her busy through the morning. Nothing too taxing but enough that it keeps her mind from wandering too far. It's only when she sees her last patient of the session that she realises that she's not eaten anything that morning, and that now she is suffering as a result. She's caution in her walk from her consulting room through to staff area. She is vaguely aware of Mrs Tembe saying her name, but nothing else filters through to her. She is more aware now of the ache low in her abdomen. It's been there throughout the morning, not constant, and she has been able to push it from her mind rather than waiting for the next reminder of its existence. She could have dwelled on it, waiting in dread for the next twinge but what would be the point of that? She can reason easily that it is nothing more than an irritant. Her body struggling to adjust.

Only now it seems slightly more insistent. The ache not quite as mild as it had been. Oh it had been noticeable before, but it couldn't really be described as pain. But then nor could this really. It wasn't enough to steal her breath, or even cause her to pause her movement. She did find herself having to fight her hand wanting to rest itself against the source of the discomfort, but that was just instinct.

"You want a drink?" Niamh's question catches her slightly off guard but she nods her head. Funny how the smell of coffee had caused her stomach to recoil in days prior, but today it has little effect. Perhaps she is finally getting over the awkward stage where the body seems so desperate to reveal the secret within to all those around, even though the expectant woman wants to keep her condition quiet.

She settles herself down on to the sofa, sinking her body down. It is easy to forget how growing new life saps your energy – it gives her a new sympathy for the women whose exhaustion she had discounted.

"Emma," Howard's voice at her side is insistent. It is only when she opens her eyes that she realises her physical reaction to the discomfort that had passed through her body. It had gone just as quickly as it had arrived, the same as before. Only this time she must have outwardly winced. She hadn't even realised Howard was close by, but now she sees so much concern in his face.

"I'm fine," The words are possibly not as convincing as she would like them to be, but she hopes they will be enough to placate him. She would know if there was anything wrong. But then she had never been on for the mothering instinct. Still she presumes she would feel it somewhere within her.

"And junior?" She watches as his eyes dart downwards to her abdomen, and sees the way his fingers seem to twitch, wanting a physical connection with his child. This is his second chance, and he seems to be grasping it with both hands, "If you're in pain, don't you think you should get checked over?" He tries to keep his voice professional; his calm, measured tone – but she can hear the emotion creeping in. He is not as able to keep his distance.

"It's a twinge," He doesn't look in the slightest bit reassured by this. He's kneeling now, eyes level with hers. It's so strange to see such a public display from him. For a moment, she fears he will try a proposal once more, and she fears that she will have to turn him down with an audience – even if that is only Niamh.

"I think you should call Ruhma," He's pulling his phone out his pocket. At some point he must have saved her community midwife's number in to his phone; she can't even recall when he would have taken it. She hadn't even put the number in her own mobile, and her handheld notes were safely stored in a drawer. She wouldn't need them until her next appointment.

"I'm not going to ring her every time I have an ache," She tries to put on her most assertive voice, the tone that tells him that she has been through this once before and as such knows what she is doing. She cannot phone with every minor thing, no matter what Howard thought.

"Emma, I really think …" he tries again. She can hear the frustration in his tone now, mixed with his concern. At this rate he will drive her to distraction, though she knows he is only doing it out of kindness. Or perhaps he is overcompensating because of his failings before. Perhaps he is pushing so hard to try to convince himself as well as her. Perhaps this will all fizzle out before she has even made it to the pregnancy's half way point.

"Howard, I'm fine," she swallows hard, "we're fine," she doesn't really refer to the baby that often, nor does she really consider that she is anything more than just herself. It's strange to think of herself as being two rather than one. She knows she sounds dismissive of him and his concerns. She watches as his face clouds over for a moment, before he pushes himself up from his position.

"Fine," the word is stilted; void of emotion and yet it says so much. She watches as he stalks away, to find solace in the silence and order of his office. He will sit and brood, waiting for her. She turns her attention now to Niamh, who has sat quiet.

"I could do you a quick antenatal" Her voice is soft when she finally does speak. There is little Niamh can do really bar listening in with the sonicaid and even then what will that really tell them. Emma shakes her head. There really is no need for this.

Not wanting this topic to go on any further she pushes herself up and makes her way back towards her consulting room. There's still a considerable break until her next patient is due in but she cannot face being around anyone else – or the prospect of having to answer their questions or deal with their concern. What was it about pregnancy that suddenly made you everyone's business and it was only going to get worse when more people discovered her condition.

Switching her attention to her computer, she flicked the mouse to bring the screen back to life. It seems to take an eternity before she is able to load up the search engine. She isn't even certain what she wants to look for, only that she needs something to distract her attention from thinking about all of this. Shouldn't she be searching for tiny outfits, and nursery furniture? Shouldn't these things be drawing her attention?

Almost without realising, she finds that she has loaded images of fetus' at 14 weeks. She swallows hard at some of the images, trying to recollect those with the being inside of her. The reality is almost too hard to bear, but harder still is the fragility of those who were lost, unable to survive outside of their mother. How had these mother's felt at the loss of this being? Had they tried to push away thoughts of the baby as she did or were they celebrating their gravid status with the world?

She clicks the web page down, unable to look any longer. She shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't be considering being a mother, not at her age and certainly not when she is the mother of an almost 30 year old. She'd not made the best job of motherhood the first time, what makes her think she can do it any better now. And yet she can't face the option of doing anything but carrying this child to term, and raising it. It is illogical and yet she is certain.

She feels the twinge again. Slightly more insistent this time. She closes her eyes against it, and without meaning too wraps her arms against her abdomen. She doesn't know if she imagines the low groan escaping her lips. She isn't sure that it lasts any longer than the ones that preceded it, and once it's passed she can almost ignore how the intensity had increased. She could of course ask Howard to ring Ruhma but how stupid would she look, a doctor, when the midwife tells her everything is fine, that this is nothing. She could take Niamh up on her offer, but that would mean admitting that she needs help. She doesn't need to be taken care of, she's no different now than before she was pregnant.

She reasons with herself that if she feels anything more than she will make the call to Ruhma. She'll laugh and apologise for bothering her, and if all else fails blame Howard for worrying.

Groaning slightly, she curses her body for it's now found inability to hold water, and makes her way to the toilet. Perhaps it was merely her irritable organs causing her discomfort. She barely even notices Niamh and Ayesha huddled against the sinks, instead she is focused on not making a scene. It is only when she is sat, with the cubicle door locked and her business attended to that she notices the small spots on her underwear. Not enough to concern her ordinarily, and certainly not enough to cause an audible reaction. But a cramp, she can't call it an ache or a twinge any longer, is enough to cause a sharp intake of breath. She tries to reassure herself that it's nothing, but now she feels an icy chill slice through her spinal column. She bites down hard on her lips to stop herself from making any further sound, but it doesn't matter now. She can hear Niamh and Ayesha outside of the door, and she knows she has to let them in; that doing so will make this all too real.


End file.
